Chapter 21

The Big Fisherman

    It’s weird how the anticipation of an event is seldom as fun, exciting, lucrative… as you expected. That’s been the case with me. Particularly as it concerned the anticipation of things Dad planned for us to do.

    Dad was going to buy a boat once. Talked about it for a couple of months. He was going to take Dennis, Larry and me to the base of the dam at Lake Houston and we were going to fill our new boat with fish. Fish congregate at the base of a dam. Big fish. I don’t know why that is, but Dad assured us that’s where they gathered.

    The thought of being in a boat at the base of a dam didn’t sound all that inviting to me. I had Niagara Falls pictured in my brain. If the boat got too close, the current would just carry us right over. I obviously had the image all wrong, ‘cause Dad never expressed any fear. Big difference between dams and falls. Apparently.

    Dennis and I thought about the boat forever. About eight weeks. We even got stuff ready for the boat outings. Spent our allowance on a couple of detachable cane poles. A rod and reel was a step beyond our ability to imagine. We were cane pole fishermen… in our imaginings.

We even bought the little fishing rigs with green line, cork and hooks attached. Used a cigar box to store our tackle.

How big would the boat be? How powerful? Do you think we could ski behind it? Would it be big enough to sleep in, or would we have to get a tent? Life jackets! Dad has got to get some life jackets. Not those hokey canvas orange ones with the soft stuff inside. Those are for losers. You never saw Mike Nelson wearing something like that.– Beg pardon? Oh, Mike Nelson. “Sea Hunt?” Lloyd Bridges? Oh, forget it. Enough to know that he wouldn’t wear an sappy orange life-preserver. 

When school finally let out in the Year of the Boat, I was even more excited than usual. It takes a big thing to get you more excited than getting out of school for three months. A giant boat would do it.

It was the middle of June when Dad pulled into the driveway with it. He’d was coming home from the day shift. I didn’t even know you buy a boat where he worked. That was strange, but stranger still was the fact that no trailer was attached to the truck. Had he lost the thing in the tunnel? I bet that’s what happened. He crashed it in the tunnel. But, he was okay. Dad had survived the carnage. 

But, no. I was jumping the gun. Putting the ol’ horse behind the cart. Had the bear by the horns. You see Dad never had a boat trailer attached to the truck. I just expected he would. “Bringing something big home from work” I thought meant that he was bringing our new boat. He must’ve bought it off somebody from work. A used boat. That’s okay. It was practically new. The guy’s wife didn’t want him spending so much money on a boat, so he had to sell it to Dad. I could see that happening. But, I couldn’t see the boat. It just wasn’t there.

Instead, Dad stepped out of the truck, reached in the bed and pulled out an old outboard motor. A small one. Three horsepower comes to mind. Surely it was more than that, but that’s the number that’s attached to this particular memory. Oh, and did I mention the motor was old? Old and green. I can almost see the thing now.

After supper Dad consolidated all of our trash into two of most damaged trash cans. Back then trashmen were vicious. To make their jobs tolerable, they’d pretend to be The Incredible Hulk. They’d toss trash cans around like they were rolled up socks. Bounced ‘em off the road and the curb. Tough they were. Not the cans. Oh, the trash cans were made of galvanized metal, but they were so bendable and rustable. A can bottom lasted for about a month. Two weeks in, the lids wouldn’t fit. I told you that to tell you this. We had one new can that was leakless. Dad grabbed the water hose and filled the can nearly two thirds full. He then set a two by four along the lip and attached the motor.

Dennis and I were more than a little concerned as to what Dad had in mind. The boat? What about the boat? Base of the dam, big fish, camping… Neither of us had the guts to ask Dad about the boat. The old leaky, smelly outboard pretty much told the story.  I didn’t want to believe it, but it was growing more and more apparent.

As Dad was prying out the sparkplug he spilled the beans. Metaphorically speaking. “Boys, I thought I’d get this motor in running order and then rent us a boat. That way we won’t need a trailer or place to park it. This will be a lot better. You’ll see.”

Oh, we saw it all right. What a let down. Two months of dreaming about a new boat, and all of a sudden our big fishing trip takes a nose dive. I took it harder than Dennis did. I think Dennis halfway expected something like this to happen. He had spent three more years with Dad than I had. I still believed.

I didn’t cry out loud or anything, but inside I was dying. It didn’t help to watch Dad struggle with that motor. He reinserted the spark plug, poured in a mixture of gas and oil and then told us to stand back. I don’t know how many times he yanked on the starter rope. I stopped counting at 1800. The closest he got to a legitimate start was about five seconds of black smoke and a loud roaring, churning noise.

Dad tried every spent spark plug he had. And, he had a cigar box full. (We used a lot of cigar boxes back then.) The man never threw away a plug. Nor, do I ever remember him buying a new one. I may be exaggerating a bit there. You’ve got to understand that I was pretty torn up about the old boatless motor. I’m still not completely over it.

Dennis and I never got to ride with Dad in a boat. Not even a rented one. Larry says he remembers one outing with Dad in a rented boat with the old three-horsepower outboard. He said that after they shoved off from the shore there at Lake Houston, Dad started yanking on the rope. According to Larry the motor eventually kicked off and ran long enough for them to get a distance away from the put-in point. Then it died with a a loud pop and a giant black cloud. Dad then started digging into his box of sparkplugs. He never did get it restarted. Dad and Larry took turns paddling to shore with the short-handled oar. I think that’s an old Scottish song. “Paddling my Lassie to shore with short-handled oar.”


It wasn’t long after the motor debacle that Dad did go fishing below the dam. He went with Red Kerns in Red’s boat. Dad came home with a burlap bag full of catfish, too. Big ones. He cleaned them in the backyard using the water hose to turn a portion of sod into a red, soggy mess. Mom fried those bubbas up, and we almost wretched. The things tasted like gasoline… not that I’ve feasted on that much fuel.

Turns out, each time Dad and Red took a fish off the hook, they just tossed it in the bottom of the boat. Unfortunately, some spilled gasoline and oil had mixed with the water that puddled in the bottom. Mom said the fish smelled a little oily when she breaded them. Dad said he smelled something fishy while he was cleaning them. He said he figured the stuff would dissipate during the cooking. I don’t know what kept us from losing Mom that evening.  

I couldn’t fault Dad for his dreams. He had great dreams and schemes of boats and tents and camping. Had his plans ever reached fruition, they would’ve been the stuff of adventure. Unfortunately, the anticipation generated by the planning provided the building blocks for disappointment. If Dad hadn’t been so set on making us happy, he would’ve tried less hard. If he had prefaced his plans with “Boys, I’ve got an idea that will probably never work, but let’s talk about it” I would’ve still gone along with it, but I would’ve been so much less disappointed at the outcome. 

All of this lays the groundwork for the Texas City Jetty Fishing Experience. You may have read about it in some outdoor disaster magazine.

Before 1962 I had no idea what a jetty was, so it stands to reason that I had no idea that one was near Texas City. Dad knew, though. I’m thinking Red Kerns told him. – “Would I lie to you, Faris? They’ve got red fish, tarpon and tuna by the ton. You could tie a soup can on a line and reel in a swordfish.” -- Can you imagine what Red Kerns’ kids witnessed? Oh, the horror.

It was early August when Dad got the brothers together and told us what he’d heard about the jetties at Texas City. Seems like it was a Sunday while on our way to church. We were going to drive out Thursday morning; fish the whole day; eat what we caught; sleep on the beach that night, periodically checking our lines; get up in the morning, have breakfast and then keep fishing. Might stay an extra night or two.

It sounded good to Dennis and me. Neither of us could grasp the idea of a jetty, but our minds resonated on the water, beach, camping and fishing concepts. The four major fun factors.

We headed out Thursday morning before sunrise. Dennis and I had our gear ready since Sunday. What was so good about being a kid was the fact that you only had to worry about yourself. Food, bedding, insect repellent… that kind of stuff was left to the adults. The more responsible.

We reached Texas City just as the sun’s hairline touched the horizon. By the time its nose appeared I was looking smack dab at a jetty. What the Sam Hill was that? It wasn’t a pier. It was a long pile of jagged granite boulders strewn in a line out into the bay. Strewn a long way. It had a flat, walkable surface on the peak, but a pointy rugged side. I knew nothing about wind and water abatement or safe havens for boats. I just figured it was one weird way to provide a place to fish. 

And, the beach! Oh, the beach. Forget the long stretch of sand. It was mostly gray ooze. Oh, we were going to have a blast.

For most of the morning we crawled all over the pink granite. Some of it might’ve been gray. Who can remember? Wet, slimy and slippery as eel snot. Dad and Larry had rod and reels. Dennis and I had the ol’ two piece cane poles. I don’t think we were ever taken that serious.

Normally, I’m a very impatient fisher-person. Can’t stay at one place too long. Just feel like there’s something a few feet over waiting to sink its teeth into some hooked bait. On this occasion the bait was shrimp. Old smelly, shrimp. It was the first time I fished with a crustacean bait. So, you can imagine that it was also the first time I fished in salt water. The scary thing about fishing in saltwater is the fact that a lot of what you hook might have teeth. I don’t like the thought of taking a hook out of the mouth of a toothed creature. Turns out, I didn’t have to like it. The only things that hit my line were tiny catfish. About six inches. I got a lot of hits, too. Just miserable. I tried to de-hook ‘em by throwing my line against a boulder. Sometimes it would free the fish up to… well to roll into the water and lay there. I didn’t like it any more than they did. Well, maybe a little more.

It wasn’t long before I stopped baiting my hook. You can bang tiny catfish against the rocks just so long before the fun dissipates. Dad and Larry didn’t tire so fast. They were casting their line out there to beat the band. They were using lures, too. No smelly shrimp for them. They had spoons and bombers and flashers. I couldn’t tell one from the other. Doubt they could. Most of ‘em looked like a set of car keys held together a by a giant paperclip.

The redfish weren’t biting that day, my friend. In fact nothing was biting but catfish. I think dad called ‘em drums. I couldn’t see it, but, hey, it was saltwater. Any fish that lives in the muck of that saltwater deserves a weird name. Crapfish would not be inappropriate as far as was concerned.

Lunchtime finally arrived, and, needless to say, we weren’t going to be eating our catch. Fortunately, Dad brought along some weenies and buns. That’s about it. Oh, and some Freetos. We gathered up some driftwood and built a fire with some siphoned gas. We found some thick wire planted in the mud and used it to skewer our weeners. If you’ve never skewered your weener on a hunk of wire, you just haven’t roughed it enough.

After lunch, Larry and Dad headed back out. Dennis and I walked around and eventually sprawled out in the car. It was hot, mosquitoey and… hot. After what seemed like three days, it was suppertime. More hotdogs.

Night came way late, but stayed forever. Dad hadn’t planned the camping very well. I guess he figured we’d just sleep in the car, ‘cause… well, it was either that or standing on the muddy beach. Too hot and too many mosquitoes. Every hour or two, one of us would wade through the mud to where the fishing poles were set up. The theory that something desperate might want to bite a piece of smelly shrimp tumbling around in the surf. Hey, I even contemplated the thought. No snacks. Can you believe that? We had no snacks. Still, I trudged out with Dad to check the lines. Anything to get me out of the sweltering backseat.

If you do some research about the happenings of August 3, 1962, you’ll find something about time stopping for about 18 hours in Texas City. Scientists have somehow managed to keep it a secret. Only a few witnesses are left who can attest to the anomaly. You’re reading something from one of ‘em now.

But, as you’ve probably guessed, morning did arrive. It had to. Anomalies can last for just so long before people start getting suspicious. What was sure to make this particular morning a real blessing was Dad’s mention of breakfast. While we were melting in the car, Dad said that he had thought to bring eggs and potatoes for breakfast. We could use leftover weeners for bacon. He was a genius. Oh, and he had a cook stove. I was giddy as a Miss Buffalo runner-up. 

“Cook stove” turned out to be pretty much of an overstatement. What Dad pulled out of the trunk was one of those cannonball-looking kerosene road torches, with a welded metal grid for sitting a skillet on. I’m fairly sure Red Kerns invented it. I later found out that the road flare is called a Toledo Torch. I think they’re made in Santa Fe. (I still had the semblance of a sense of humor.)

Dad lit the wick of the TT and the thing started smoking like a burning steel-belted Uniroyal. Dad peeled the potatoes and diced ‘em while the skillet heated. I figured we were in trouble when I observed how long it took the Crisco to melt. We apparently had a cool flame going. Dad chunked the potatoes in and they just sat there. There was no cooking noises at all. No, crack, pop or sizzle. The potatoes just congregated in a bunch and collected particulates from the smoke. Before long the spuds were coated with a black suet. They were still raw, though. Raw and black. Dad figured he’d given ‘em long enough, so he scooped ‘em out into a couple of flimsy paper plates and then so he cracked a bunch of eggs and tossed them in a skillet. The eggs wouldn’t even cook. They would turn a smoky black, though.

Dad finally called time and spooned us each up a flimsy paper plate of rawness. As hungry as I was, I couldn’t eat it. I couldn’t even manage the cold weener.

We stood there in the wet sea mist of morning poked around at breakfast, eventually tossing it into the surf where fish and crabs scrambled to get away. Dad extinguished the road torch, while Larry cleaned the skillet in the surf. Dennis and I just stood around looking sad. Dad must’ve picked up on that ‘cause he said, “Well, what do you boys think?” We gave our usual, “I don’t know” answers. That’s always the safest thing for a kid to say. Dad nodded and then said, “Well, what do you think about going home?” Dennis and I exchanged eye-widening expressions. I believe it was Dennis who said, “Well, if we must.”

Dad grinned and said, “Okay, how about gathering up the poles and telling your brother that we’re getting out of here.

Larry welcomed the news. Welcomed it big time. “Can you believe this? Just when I didn’t think it could get any worse, he pulls out the road flare. What was he thinking?” Dad was too far away to hear anything, so Larry pretty well lit into him. It really did me good to hear him, ‘cause, during the entire experience, I thought maybe I was the only one having a miserable time. I was fairly sure Dennis was unhappy, but he could fake it so much better than I could. So, I wasn’t the only stick in the mud. In fact, maybe I was almost normal. No. I didn’t go overboard with the notion.

    I don’t think I ever felt more grubby and gross than when I climbed out of the ’60 Biscayne in the driveway on Camille Street. I was hungry, filthy, mosquito bitten, smoke-smelling grungy. The ring I left in the bathtub took a half can of Babo to remove. Mom told me that later, ‘cause I was too tired to scrub the tub myself. Mom was a peach.

    Dennis and I ate a couple of tuna sandwiches apiece and some of those cheap pink wafer cookies. Dad’s idea of a snack… a snack that he had left in the cabinet. Then we crawled into bed and slept till late evening. The outing had really taken its toll.

Even after all these years I still unwittingly conjure up the sense of misery we experienced during that outing. Can’t help it. Thoughts of bad stuff can stick like tar on shoe leather. Can with me.

This will likely come across as way too noble-sounding, but I’ve got to say that, after all we went through, I was really more worried about Dad’s disappointment than I was upset at the horrors of that trip. I knew that Dad wanted more than anything for us to have a good time. It just wasn’t in the cards.

Dad was to blame for some of what happened, but mostly it was Red Kerns. What a goobhead. How could we separate Dad from the influence of that maniac? We couldn’t didn’t think we should kill him, but we certainly discussed it. 

 It was after the Texas City Jetty incident that the name “Red Kerns,” when used as a qualifier to any suggestion, became anathema among the Hayter brothers. I don’t know that Dad ever picked up on that. We didn’t think it wise to make fun of one of Dad’s friends. Even the big nincompoop friend.

I don’t believe I ever met Red. I feel good about that. I always envisioned a redheaded guy who talked a blue streak. The kind of guy who would one-up you on any accomplishment. “Oh, yeah? My Buick gets 80 miles a gallon.” That kind of stuff.

And, he must’ve been a guy who Dad owed money. There was no other explanation.



     

   

Chapter 20

This is the second time this photo has appeared. I'm using it as a reference as to about how old I was the time Dad rescued me from the werewolf.

Rescued by Dad

    Most psychologists will tell you that the fifth child in a seven-child family is generally the one of whom the least amount of fanfare is made. You’ll have to trust me on that ‘cause there’s no way I’m calling most psychologists back just to document it. The research is killing me on this book.

    I can count on a butcher’s mangled left hand the number of times Dad or Mom ever singled me out for anything good during my youth. Dennis? My older brother got patted on the back so many times he carries his right shoulder in a slant to this very day. Most people believe he was a pitcher for the Orioles. No, it was the constant parental back and shoulder slaps.

    Me? My rear was swatted so many times that, to this day, I have a tendency to walk on my toes. Swats to the rear affect people in different ways. Mine elevate my walk. Most doctors consider that normal. And, no, I’m not calling “most doctors” back just to verify that for you.

    One of the few “good” one-on-one moments I experienced with Dad was a fluke. Dad just pretty much walked right into it. Carried himself well during the encounter. It’s one of my cherished moments.

    It all happened because of a backyard campout. Back then Dad’s never took their sons camping. Talked about it a lot, but it just wasn’t convenient or practical to haul your kids to the woods somewhere to rough it. It was bad enough that you had to live indoors with the little twits. I’m just guessing here.

    So the neighborhood gang resorted to backyard campouts. We didn’t have tents. We built forts. Your standard fort would be constructed with sawhorses, blankets, garbage cans and fender skirts. What? Fender skirts. You’re too young to know.

    We’d each supply snacks and drinks, and combine the stash into one giant pile. All the good stuff was usually gone an hour or two into night. Some of the bad stuff never got consumed. Beg pardon? You know, crackers, liver loaf and really old Velveeta. Old Velveeta can kill you. Don’t know if you knew that.

    The only participants in this particular campout were David Stone and I. I have no idea why we were the only ones. We’d never done it before… nor since. I’m fairly sure I’ll die not knowing… and I can live with that. Were I forced to come up with a reason, I’d have to guess that it was during the big mumps epidemic of ’61 at Revlon Terrace. That was the name of our subdivision. Back then even the poor subdivisions got cool names. Revlon. Makes me feel rich just saying it.

    Regardless, it was most odd that none of our other friends cared to campout. Odder still that Dennis wasn’t interested. Every campout I ever camped Dennis was there… except for this one night. Weird how that worked. Oh, and the campout was in David’s backyard. That’ll mean more to you later. Work with me here.

    I remember that Dennis was surprised when I decided to camp without him. He thought his lack of commitment to the project would kill the whole notion. I don’t know why it didn’t. I must’ve taken all his smart allelic behavior I could handle. At one point he assured me that I would come running home early in the night. “No way you two nabobs will make the whole night. You’ll be too scared.” He said something like that. I doubt he said “nabob” though. Not sure where that came from.

    It took two trips to get all my camping junk to David’s. We didn’t even build a fort. Can you believe that? We thought it’d be cool just to lay outside and look up at the stars. Nabob is looking more and more appropriate.

    By 10:00 we had finished off all the snacks. All except for a bottle of warm Grape Nehi. If you ever down some old Velveeta with a warm grape Nehi, your stomach will explode. Hey, I’ve seen it happen. Heard about it, anyway. Pretty sure I didn’t read it.

    So at 10 David and I were stuffed to the gills. By 11:00 we were talked out. The mosquitoes were beginning to swarm and a werewolf was rattling the gate. That’s what they do before attacking. They toy with you.

    So, David up and says he wants to go in. He didn’t suggest “we” go in. Just that “he” was. So, what’s the problem? We had cancelled many a campout in mid camp. What’s the big deal on this occasion? Dennis was the big deal. Dennis was always with me on campouts, so we’d walk home together. Monsters wouldn’t mess with you if your big brother there. It’s some kind of code.

    I don’t even remember David asking me what I thought about shutting down the camp. He just up and went inside after making his announcement. He didn’t slam the door in my face or anything, but he certainly didn’t offer to help me haul my stuff home.

    So, there was just me in the backyard with a werewolf at the gate. I didn’t have my bike with me. I couldn’t ride and balance all my gear, so I walked it over. We’re talking, oh, six, seven houses down the block. About three miles in bike-less kid distance.

    I decided it best to leave all my gear in David’s backyard, and make a dash for my house. I’d come back the next day and recover my stuff. So, I crept to the gate, and announced my presence. There’s no use trying to hide from a werewolf. Those things can smell you a mile away. Besides, they know when you’re thinking about ‘em. The thought that Frankenstein’s monster could beat a werewolf is beyond fiction. They’re fast and they can jump. Have you seen their teeth? Have you? Okay, then.

    So I loudly opened the gate, crept out to the middle of the street— You don’t walk on the sidewalk alone at night unless you want something to jump out a tree and slit your throat. – No, you want to be in the middle of the street so you can see what’s coming. So, I’m in the middle of the street and I start singing. “Have gun will travel is the card of a man. A knight without armor in a savage land.”

    Then I started a slow trot. “His fast gun for hire heeds the calling wind. A soldier of fortune is the man called… Pal-a-din!” When I got to Paladin, I was full speed. I never looked behind, because that’s when they grab you from the front. I did look side to side, though. My peripheral vision is exceptional. Always has been. – Three fingers. – I thought you might test me.

    I went got parallel to my yard, I went from curb to sidewalk in one jump. From there I was a blur to the front door. I instantly tried to calm down. I didn’t want to barge in and wake people up. Mostly didn’t want to wake Dennis up. I would take his razzing in the morning, but didn’t care to hear anything when I climbed into bed. – We slept together. I believe I mentioned that. Back then it was a fairly normal thing to do. Wally and Beaver were the only brothers I knew with twin beds.  

    So, I eased open the screen door, and grabbed hold of the doorknob. The thing wouldn’t turn. No way. It wasn’t happening. We never locked the doors back then. Why would Mom look ‘em on the night I—Then it hit me. Dennis. I was almost arrogant in my assurance to him that David and I would make it all night. And, he was so sure I wouldn’t. He didn’t want me sneaking into the house. He wanted me to wake everyone up, so he do the ol’ ninny-ninny-noo-noo thing to me.

    So, what was I going to do?  Wake everybody up by knocking on the door or scratching on a window screen. I couldn’t scratch on Jill’s window ‘cause she would scream. Jill was a screamer. What am I saying? She still is.

Or, I was I going to man-up and stay outside till morning. I first walked around the house and peeked in the windows to see if anyone was still up. I knew Dad was working graveyards and wouldn’t be in till early morning. I was glad of that, ‘cause I really didn’t want to accidentally wake him up and have him come to the door and give me that disappointing look. I hated to disappoint that man. Just seemed like the easiest thing for me to do. Most things were hard for me, but letting Dad down was easy as being scared in the dark. I was an expert at it. It’s a gift of the number five child.

My luck was running pretty well true to form. There was no one stirring in the Hayter house. The attic fan was on, so even if I tried to scratch on a screen it’d be hard for anyone to hear me. I’d end up having to practically yell to get someone’s attention. Probably end up getting shot by the neighbor. At the time, the thought wasn’t all that bad.

The porch was uncomfortable as all get out. I had the brick pillar to lean against, but the concrete floor was like… well like sitting on concrete. I had left my blanket in David’s backyard, and there was no way on God’s green earth I was going back for that thing. It was going to be a long night.

Tears began to stream down my face. It was a weird cry. Had some anger in it. I was angry at Dennis for locking me out, but I was mostly mad at me for… for being me. I was such a loser. Scared of my shadow, uncertain of everything. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this more than twice, but I always had this feeling that I was a freak or a Martian or something, and everybody knew about it but me. Each time I exited a room or left my friends, everyone would start giggling and making fun of how stupid I was. In a sense you’d have to be rather egotistical to believe people would go to that much trouble for you, but I was too messed up to see that aspect of it.

And, I was upset at God, too. I knew he was embarrassed to have me around. No way could I be turning out the way He had planned. But, then, why would He go to the trouble of providing me with another lesson in humiliation? What good would it do? I was beat down about as far as I could go. 

At one point, I realized I was not going to make it through the whole night. A non-alien would’ve bitten the bullet and gone ahead and knocked on the door. The sooner the better. But, I was going to put it off till I was about ready to crack. Didn’t think it would take all that long.

 I hadn’t been on the porch for 30 minutes when a pair of headlights streaked across the street as a car rounded the corner. Who on earth? The vehicle slowed as it approached the house. It was unmistakably our 60 Chevy Biscayne. It was Dad. I thought he was working the graveyard shift, but he had worked the evening shift instead. The evening shift meant he was home by about midnight.

Why didn’t I know that? I was apparently so excited about camping out that I never noticed that Dad was at work. I just figured he was sleeping late so he could work the night shift. Graveyards. – No idea why they called ‘em that. -- Dad hated graveyards, but he did get paid about 30 cents an hour more when he worked ‘em. And, there weren’t so many foremen out and about at night, so everyone in the plant appreciated that aspect of the shift.

But, forget all that. Dad was home! I ran over and opened the garage door for him. He smiled at me as he drove in. It was a good smile. He got out of the car and handed me his lunch kit. “What are you doin’ up?”  he asked.

I told him the story about camping over at David’s house and how the mosquitoes were really bad, so we decided to call it off. Who was I kidding? Dad knew we got scared and David decided to go in. “Yeah, the mosquitoes are really bad tonight, aren’t they?” he said.

Dad grabbed the doorknob to the backdoor and found it locked. “What’s this all about?” It was right then that it registered with him. I had been locked out. He asked how long I’d been there, and I told him the truth. “Well, I guess I’m gonna hafta start leaving a key in the garage for you boys. Where’s your brother?” I told him that Dennis decided not to camp with us. It made no more sense to Dad than it meant to me.

“Well, let’s get in and find something to snack on.” He shooed me into the house, where we had some milk and really cheap cookies. You know, the light, waffley wafers with the white icing in ‘em? Nothing to ‘em. When it came to cookies and candy, Dad thought cheap was best. Taste was secondary.

But, I didn’t think on that for more than a second. Dad had rescued me. And, he didn’t make a big deal – or any deal—about me being too scared to campout. It was like he almost understood what it was like to be me.

Dad asked me if I wanted to stay up awhile and watch TV with him. He said he always had trouble going to sleep when he got home from graveyards. Needed time to enjoy being home. Like an idiot, I told him I was too tired to stay up. He understood. He may have genuinely wanted me to stay up with him, but I just didn’t believe it. I thought he was just trying to be nice to me. Trying to make me feel better about myself. I way over analyze sometimes. Most times.

Before going to bed, I walked over to Dad as he sat in his chair in the living room. I walked to side of the chair and put my arms on his shoulders, hugged him and told him good night. He reached around and patted my head. When I was much younger, we would kiss Daddy goodnight. At this particular age, I usually just told him goodnight. But, this time I felt a hug was in order.

A Dad hug always had a neat feeling about it. When he got off work, his hugs smelled of cigar smoke and refinery. It was an oily, gasoline, exhaust type of smell. To this day that combination still me reminds me of Dad.

Oh, and when you hugged Dad, you could always feel his stubble on your cheek. If you hugged him right after he shaved, you’d still feel the stubble. If it wasn’t there, it wouldn’t have been Dad.

A few years back, I was asleep, dreaming about Dad. My Dad dreams were always good ones. Over the years, my dreams of Dad have all become good ones. And, each time, I’m the only one who seems to think it odd that Dad is still around. It was like I was the only one who remembered he died. Anyway, Dad hugged me in the dream and I could feel his whiskers and smell the cigar smoke. The sensation was so real that it even woke me up.

It felt so much like Dad was really there, but I know he wasn’t. I don’t think God lets people in heaven come down to visit us on earth. It wouldn’t be fair to them. It wouldn’t be heaven if you were up there worrying about how your family was doing. No, I think God decided to bless me with a Dad hug that night. Must’ve thought I could use one.

Remembering these few minutes with my Dad has made me see that a lot of things that I saw as “bad” in my life, seemed to bring “good” along with them? If I hadn’t experienced the humiliating campout event, if Dennis hadn’t decided not to join us, David had not left me and gone inside, if Dennis hadn’t locked me out of the house… well I would’ve missed out on one of the few bonding experiences I had with my dad. It was one of my favorite moments with him. While I cherish the memory, I’m still upset with myself for not staying up with him to watch TV. It was so like me.

By the way, Dennis didn’t make fun of me all that much about chickening out.  He was actually awake when I climbed into bed. “I told you.” That’s all he said. I was expecting so much worse.

I don’t know, maybe he was sorry that he locked me out. Or, like I say, maybe it was God’s plan that he lock me out so both brothers could discover different lessons in a single moment.

Or, maybe I am from Mars. I still think about that.







         

Chapter 19

“At the Movies”

    I don’t associate with all that many people who are big moviegoers. Cousin Claudia said the last time she went to the movies “Midnight Cowboy” was showing. She said that she and her husband thought it was a Western. The experience soured her on all movies.

    Hey, I saw “Midnight Cowboy” too, but I didn’t let it ruin the theatre experience fo me. When it got an Academy Award for Best Picture it did cause me to question life as I knew it, but it didn’t diminish my desire to go to the movie. I think it had to do with DNA. When I was a kid, I didn’t know much about chromosomes and stuff like that. Today, I’m practically a geneticist. I’ve got it down.

    In researching letters, diaries, memories for this book, I have determined that I got my love for the movies from Dad. I’d show you the math and diagrams, but would much rather just tell you the story.

    Among the best ideas Dad ever had in his entire life was to occasionally take Dennis and me to downtown Houston to catch a movie at either The Metropolitan or The Majestic Theatres. I don’t know what got into him. The Capitan was right down the road. Great movie house. Built in around 1950 in that old opulent ‘20s style with the balcony and weird paintings on the wall and a plush curtain. The Capitan was great… for the common man.

    But, Dad, when he was in the best mood ever, would find Dennis and me and ask us the stupidest question ever asked. “Do you boys want to go downtown to see a movie?” It was like Christmas in summer. We even wore our church clothes. We were going uptown, just Dad, Dennis and me. Of course, Lynda, Larry and Susan were grown and out of the house. When you moved out of the house, you were pretty much missed out on Dad paying for stuff.

    Downtown Houston was pretty much like I expected Mars or Venus to be. I was just completely out of my environment. A different world. Buildings so tall that I got scared when I looked straight up. And, we even parked in a building. Just bizarre as it could be. If you parked in a building in Pasadena, you had to go through a wall. Not, so in Houston. They had buildings where cars could stay.

    Before the movie Dad always took us to LC Cafeteria for lunch. LC was like a Wyatts or Luby’s or Furr’s or Piccadilly’s or—  I’ve got nothing else. Please, nod like recognize one of these places.

    Dad even let us get a dessert… and it wasn’t even our birthdays. I remember once Dennis and I both got lemon pie. Somebody did something weird to it. It tasted like soap. And, I knew what soap tasted like. The weird thing about bad pie is the fact that you remember it. I remember two pie experiences in my life. One was the lemon soap pie. The other was chocolate. Landed right on top of Dad. Remind me to share later. I’ll try to work it into the next chapter.

    Dad never rushed us through lunch. Never said, “Hurry up, guys, we’ve got to get to the movie before it starts. We never heard that because Dad never knew when the movie started. We just showed up when we got there. The person in the ticket booth had no problem selling you a ticket for a movie that had been on for an hour or more. During our outings to The Metropolitan and The Majestic, we never once got to see the first of a movie first. We’d enter, Dad would get us each a popcorn and soda pop, then we’d stumble into the dark auditorium and feel our way to seats on the right side. Remember, Dad saw best out of his left eye, so we sat on the right...  I suppose so he didn’t have to turn his head too far. I never really came to grips with the reasoning.

    Oh, and this was before stadium seating and steeply slanted floors. Back then, theatre seating was designed by the same people who designed church auditoriums. They apparently seldom went to church or the theatre. Just never imagined anyone mike take the seat right in front of you and block your vision. If I went back in time, I wouldn’t be able to add much to society in the way technological advances, but I could sure give ‘em lyrics to some great songs, and I could tell ‘em to slant the floors of their auditorium and  set the stage or screen up higher. Jim-a-neee! That’s what Mom used to say. If it can’t be attributed to a Disney cricket, I have no idea where she got it.

    Okay, so we’re back to the movie. When we sat down, we had no idea how far into the movie we were. Could be 10 minutes are an hour. What’d we’d do is watch the end of the movie and then stay planted till it started up again. Oh, and this was a time before clean up people entered the room and swept up all the popcorn and spilled drinks. Back then they only did that at the end of the day, if at all. The movie would end, and five minutes later, the next would crank up. And, you wanna know what’s really stupid? We weren’t the only ones who came into the middle of the movie. I don’t know what the deal was back then. During a movie, there’d be people getting up and leaving all during the thing. They’d recognize the part they came in on, and then just leave. Life back then was just weird as it could be.

    Like everyone else, we generally left after catching up to the part where we came in. But, for the special movies we’d watch the whole thing from start to finish. Red River,  High Noon, The Searchers…  Oh, and Shane comes to mind. Dad loved that movie. We came in when Shane and all the small ranchers came into town to buy supplies, and Shane got in the fight with Ben Johnson and all the other Ryker guys. But, we didn’t leave at that point. We may have even seen it two complete times.

    I always felt bad that Jill didn’t get to go to the movie with us. It had to be because she too young and she was a girl. Being a girl was a big downer back then, especially if you had four brothers.

I never felt bad that Alan couldn’t go with us. He was just a little squirt. He wouldn’t even appreciate a movie. Oh, he’d like to go, but he wouldn’t pay attention. Dad wasn’t going to fork over money for a meal and a ticket to someone who couldn’t pay attention. Who can blame him?

Now that I think of it, there was a time when Dad took all four of us younger kids to the movie. It was on a Sunday… which was weird, because we never went to the movie on a Sunday. It was unscriptural. Bound to have been. But, sure enough, one Sunday after church Dad asked if we wanted him to take us to the movie. He said he was going to drop us off and pick us up when it ended.

At the time I was flabbergasted. We all were. A Sunday movie? Hey, don’t ask questions, just go with it. So we piled into the car and Dad headed to the Capitan. That’s where “The Ten Commandments.” During the drive, Dennis mentioned that “The Lost World was showing at ”The Longs” down the road from the Capitan. The Lost World! Dinosaurs. We loved dinosaurs. Dad didn’t care. He wanted us to see “The Ten Commandments.” Told us it would be more exciting and religious and that, it being a Sunday we should see it.

“Okay, Dad, if that’s what you want us to see.” We told him something like that. Said it in a way that let him know how disappointed we were. When we got to the theatre, we were all ready to get out of the car, but Dad stopped us. “Okay, okay. You can see the stupid dinosaurs. And, he drove us to The Longs.”

Boy, did we all wish we had gone to see the Moses movie. “The Lost World” wasn’t even a movie. It was documentary thing like might see at school. And, it lasted only a little over an hour. And, that’s all that was on. No three shows with cartoons and previews. We ended up calling Dad was sooner than we thought we would.

Dad wasn’t surprised by the call, though. No, he knew all along that the dinosaur movie was a short one. It didn’t hit me till I was married what was really going on in Dad’s mind that day. You see “The Ten Commandments” was almost four hours long. That would’ve been four hours that Dad and Mom would’ve had to themselves. No kids in the house on a Sunday. One can only imagine what they might do with their time. A young Mark couldn’t imagine, but someone else might have.

We eventually did get to see “The Ten Commandments,” but that didn’t do Dad much good. At that point he probably didn’t care one way or the other. Kids. They can really wreck stuff.


Of course, back then, all movies were not shown indoors. See where I’m going with this? You bet ya. We’re headed for the Drive-in. We’d finish supper on a Friday or Saturday evening, and Dad would say, “What would ya’ll think about going to the Drive-in?” What would we think? What would we think? Good grief, Daddy, we’re already there. I mean we’re sitting here at the kitchen table, but our minds are aat the Drive-in. Yea, Daddy! Give me five! On the downside! – No we never said stuff like that, but I sure wish we would’ve.

For a dad to pile his family into a car and head off to an outdoor theatre to see two or three movies, a few previews and some cartoons… well, he’d hafta be nuts. But, that’s what Dad did, and we loved him for it.

A visit to the Drive-in had a lot going against it. It was usually hot as all get out. And mosquitoes. You had to ignite one of those green PIC spiral things to fog away the stinging demons. The stuff was like a really bad smelling incense. And, where do you set the thing in a car? Mom usually put it on the dashboard in front of her. Oh, how that woman sacrificed.

To this day, there have been no studies done to see what inhaling PIC smoke did to your lungs. Some have said that the smoke actually served as an antidote for the tons of DDT we inhaled while chasing the bugman. Of course, I don’t remember Mom chasing the bugman all that many times. One or two, maybe. – What? The bugman? Oh, the guy in the jeep with the giant drum of DDT in the back, who would drive around the neighborhood and release a giant fog of the stuff. It was giant, I’m telling you. You couldn’t even see the hood of the parked car you just ran into. We tripped over garbage cans, bicycles, tricycles, Volvos, kid brothers… We straddled trees, telephone poles, street signs… All for the purpose of running with reckless abandon in a fog of poison. And, we’re still alive. Hey, I can’t believe it either.

By the way, back to PIC, today there are only six people in the country who know what the acronym PIC stands for. I’m not one of them. I’d be really disappointed to learn it stood for “Place in car?” That’s just not inventive enough.

So, we had mosquitoes and heat. Boy, summer drive-in outings were killers. We loved ‘em, too. Hey, it was something big to do. Some of the lousiest movies I ever saw were at the drive-in. Of course, at the time, I had no idea they were that bad. Did I mention earlier that we used to watch “The Laurence Welk Show?” Hey, we had a lot of tolerance for hooha back then.

On most drive-in nights, Dad would let us kids go to the seating area near the concession stand. Of course, we waited till we had eaten all the popcorn Mom had popped for us. A grocery bag full of the stuff. Popcorn and spilled Kool Aid was all over the backseat. You’ve got to understand that this was before floormats. Hadn’t been invented yet. The floors of every car we ever had was nothing more than black rubber glued to the metal floor. You could’ve sprayed the car out with a garden hose and not messed up much.

You’re not going to believe this, but a time or two, Mom fried up a bunch of chicken and we ate it in the car during the movies. I’m not joking. Fried Chicken, popcorn and Kool Aid. When we left the car to go up front, we were four greasy kids with purple lips. – “Hey, look! Those kids had chicken! And, grape Kool-Aid! Let’s kill ‘em!”

Most of the time Jill and Alan played on the swing set that was set up just below the giant movie screen. Occasionally, I did too, but you don’t have to spread that around. Dennis and I usually sat in the old wooden chairs that were screwed into the concrete patio. We’d sit there and watch the moths fly through the projector’s ever expanding light ray. But, most of the time we watched the movie.

If you’ve never heard the sound of a drive-in movie, you just haven’t lived. The speakers set up for the cars were connected to short, frayed wires. You’d hafta to roll your window part way up to get the little curved slot to fit on the window. The speaker was a heavy, gray, box with a dial and slits at the bottom. That’s where the sound came out. If you stuck an empty green bean can over your mouth and yelled into it, that’s pretty much the sound that came out of the speakers. I used to do that a lot. Anyway, back then, we could still understand most of the dialog that came out of the speaker. Today? I couldn’t come close.

The speakers by the concession stand were no better. Just bigger. If there was a fast talker on the screen, you might as well forget about it. “Wha, wah, wuh, wah? Wum, wum, wha, wha, wha…” Pretty cool stuff.

The biggest travesty to mankind, when I was a kid, was previews. I loved ‘em, but they were hyped beyond all reason. Did you know that the previews only showed the real exciting parts of a movie? Well they did. Every third preview had a guy in a gorilla suit. He was all over the place killing people. Didn’t bother stooping down like a real ape. He just walked around like he was a menacing thug on a visit to a hotel.

Then there were Martians and zombies and brains in fishbowls. Again, pretty cool stuff. Western previews were always good. The guy who did the voices back then didn’t talk in a low whisper like they do today. The voice of the previews was way excited. Acted like he had not only seen the movies, but was in ‘em. Made me want to come back and see what all the fuss was about.

Turned out, the previews were the only exciting part. The rest of movies were generally snoozers. And, the preview guy didn’t seem to mind at all that he was selling a load of horse hockey. I always felt that grownups should taken advantage of kids like that. Made me feel cheap.

And, speaking of feeling stuff, by the time the second movie was over, Dennis and I were pretty well spent. Jill and Alan had already headed back to the car. Dennis or me had to escort ‘em back, ‘cause they couldn’t remember where we parked. Couldn’t remember spit.

When Dennis and I finally made it back to the car ourselves, we were pretty well dead to the world. We had to shove Jill and Alan to the middle of the backseat. Mom had been ready to go home after the first movie. The second movie was generally the best one. They saved the worst for third. I’m not sure Dad ever caught onto that. He’d want to stay till the bitter end.

I don’t know. Maybe they saved the sexiest movie for last. I only remember seeing part of one. It was about guys on motorcycles riding around being mean. Not mean enough to keep me awake. Just pushing people around kind of stuff.

The next thing I knew, Dad was waking Dennis, and telling him to put the speaker back on the pole. Dennis always got to do the neat stuff. Dad would then navigate the car around the poles and over the humps in an attempt to get ahead of all the other cars. Pretty exciting stuff. If someone had invented door extensions for cars, Dad would’ve been stiff-arming drivers right and left. He didn’t wait well. Oh, and I might add that Dad never drove off with the speaker still hanging on the back window. Some people did that, you know? I never saw it happen, but I sure saw the results of it. There were always an assortment of speakerless poles. Not mute Polish people, mind you. That’d be silly. 

I don’t think any of us ever arrived home awake. Any of us kids. Dad probably stayed awake for most of the drive. The sudden stop in the driveway usually woke me up. Dennis and I each had a window seat, so we’d ease the door open and stagger out of the car. Our rears would be covered in popcorn. Mom would reach into the back and grab Alan, and Dad would get Jill and they’d carry the little twerps into the house and put ‘em in bed.

Dad had a good sense of humor a lot of the time, but I was usually afraid to test it. Just once I wanted to say, “Hey, Daddy. After you get Jill in, how about coming back for me? I don’t think I’m gonna make it.” It’s one of the few hundred things I wish I had said to Dad. He would’ve probably laughed. How could he not?

The ol’ drive-in experience is one of few childhood adventures that I don’t care to relive. The thought of going was always fun. It was the “after that” part that generally stunk on ice. By the time you make it home, you’ve sworn off the drive-in… until next payday. – “Hey, who wants to go to the drive-in?” – “Yea, Daddy! Who’s the man? You’re the man. Oh, yes you are!”

Yeah, that’s something I wish I had said to him. It might’ve gotten me a stint in military school, but I wish I had tried it. I think Dad may have wished I had, too.

  

Chapter 18

Dad and Mom church directory photo.

Mom would absolutely hate the thought of you seeing this picture.

“Lesson on a life”

    I’ve made no secret of the fact that a lot of times I was scared of Dad. You may have picked up on that. So much of my fear was uncalled for, unnecessary and all around stupid. If I had it to do over I’d try to get so much closer to him. At the time, that was not gonna happen. That’s pretty much the way it is when you’re a dumb kid with no confidence or self esteem. 

    I may not have mentioned it, but I got three spankings from Dad. I can only remember details of one of ‘em, but my mind’s pretty made up about there being two others.

    The one I remember caught me all unawares. Set me to pondering a bunch about it afterwards, too. They’re the worst kind.

We were living on Camille Street and I was, oh, probably 11. Dennis, Jill and I were in the backyard with the Edgertons -- David, Diane, Debbie, Denise and Darrel. There was a pattern with their names that I never picked up on at the time. (See dumb kid reference above.)

Oh, and now that I remember, you can forget about Darrel being in on this. He was likely standing over by the chain-link gate, preoccupied. Daryl was a slightly plump 3-year-old who wore nothing but underwear…. all four seasons. Didn’t matter. The kid would prowl around with one hand down the front of his dirtied briefs and the other up to his mouth close enough for him to insert a thumb. And, I don’t really think he kept track of which hand he was putting where. All but two days of his life he had a runny nose. I don’t remember him ever saying anything. Maybe I wasn’t listening.

Regardless, I can’t blame Daryl for what happened that afternoon in the backyard. What happened was a massive wrestling match. We didn’t even choose up teams. It was just a major free-for-all. Ever had one of those? It’s been at least three years since my last one. On Camile Street our free-for-alls were relatively harmless. There was seldom any gouging or biting, but you’d see some serious arm and leg twistings, tossings and an occasional pinch. Denise. The kid was ruthless.

    It’s probably germane to the story that I had a crush on Diane Edgerton. Slightly germane. Just as sweet a girl as I ever met… next to Barbara in the first grade. Barbara was an angel. Blond  hair, shy, cute voice… She moved off right after Christmas. I came back from the holidays and she was gone. It took me the rest of the—Uh, I’m sorry.  Where was I?

    Oh, Diane. A crush I had. The crush was reciprocal, too. Not sure that’s proper terminology, but it sounds good. My infatuation with Diane lasted up to the time we decided to kiss over by the backside of her house. We touched lips for about a nanosecond and then it was over. For me. The crush that is. I don’t know why, but the kiss destroyed everything. I don’t know if it was a stupid sense of shame on my part or the thought that any girl who would give herself away that easily was not crush material. I don’t know. I just know I was a stupid kid. I actually hurt Diane’s feelings, too. The memory of the experience did much to build on my sense of self-loathing.

    All right, enough of that. We’re returning to the backyard where there was a massive tangle of bodies. Again, no gouging, but tossing and a few headbutts. Not like today. Back then you’d headbutt a butt or shoulder or back. If you ever butted a head, it hurt like everything, and you’d cry. Not like today. Nowadays, it apparently only hurts the headbuttee. The headbutter can do it all day without feeling a thing. Evolution.

    At some point during the melee, Mom yelled for Dennis and me to stop. I had no idea why she singled us out. Jill is in the middle of all this getting pounded. But, Mom tells Dennis and me to quit. So, we stopped for a couple of minutes. Maybe one. Then we were back at it. Dennis would keep shoving me down till I managed to trip him. I was a great tripper. Gifted.

Then I’d toss David over my shoulder. Jill would headbutt me in the back. Debbie would move in close and start squeezing and bending my arm, leg, neck… it didn’t matter. Debbie was the antithesis of her older sister, Diane. Debbie was a stocky, freckled, tomboy. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could spit, and I was a poor spitter. Still am. That girl could fight. We even came up with saying related to her prowess as a fighter. After a tough day of play, if you looked really beat up somebody might say, “Wow! You look like you’ve been “Debbied.” (I just made that last part up.)

    We weren’t five minutes into Round Two of Wrestlemania when Mom let loose once more. “Dismark! I’m not telling you again! You kids quit that fighting!” (Back then Moms saved a lot time by running names together.) At that point I did something really stupid. Seemed perfectly normal at the time, and I’m sure I would’ve gotten away with it had Dad not stopped his tinkering in the garage long enough to see what was going on. Dad was watching. Oh, my word.

What I did was instantly let loose of Debbie’s hair and release my leg-hold on David’s neck. Then, I said, “Mother, I’m not fighting!”

    Get it? At that very moment I was not fighting. I had been fighting when she yelled, but not at the very moment I answered her yell. Apparently, Dad didn’t understand, nor was I brave enough to explain to him the intricacies of the lie dodge. Next thing I knew, everyone on the block heard my name. Dad was standing in the back doorway of the garage and yelled, “Mark!”

    It is so bizarre how a moment of frivolity can immediately give way to sheer terror. At that moment I would’ve given everything I had or could steal not to be named Mark. But, I was the only Mark in the backyard. Oh, there was little kid across the street named Mark, but Dad wasn’t calling him. I’m not saying the L’il Mark didn’t wake up from whatever he was doing when he heard his name. But, I assure you, he experience nothing like the bigger Mark on the other side of the street from him.

    By the way, the fighting stopped. You might’ve already guessed that. As I made my way to the garage, the Edgertons made their way out of the backyard. Jill and Dennis ran to the very back fence. In the corner. Guilt by association was a concern for us kids. I don’t believe there was a living soul that was happy about the situation. Oh, maybe Darrel. He’d been yelled at and spanked so much by his mom, that he probably enjoyed the thought of someone else getting some negative attention. No, I don’t believe that for a minute.

    Dad led me to his and Mom’s bedroom. I hated that. I would’ve much rather been spanked in my own room. That way I could just stay there when it was all over. I did my best crying in the closet. Dad didn’t say anything until he grabbed his belt off the peg in the closet. I’m not sure his pants would’ve stayed up had he taken off the one he was wearing. It’d be a real hoot if, while spanking your kid, your pants fell down. It’d just kind of ruin the whole moment.

    Dad doubled up the belt and then spoke his first words since yelling my name. He said, “I don’t ever want to hear you lie to your mother again.” Then he reared back and I instantly turned and jumped face down on the bed. He didn’t tell me to get in any special position, but I just thought it best to face the punishment by not facing Dad.

    He didn’t hit me all that many times. Maybe five. But, they were hard hits. I remember more from Dad’s the sound. Oddly, I don’t remember feeling them all that much. I believe I was in shock more than anything.

Dad never mentioned the spanking hurting him more than it did me. He just started swatting. And, I started bawling. Well, in truth, I was bawling from the minute I heard him call my name. One of those having-trouble-catching-my-breath cries. I was too scared to be embarrassed about Diane seeing me cry.

During the whipping, I didn’t think Dad was trying to teach me a lesson or lead me on the path everlasting. I don’t think a person as mad as he was could have any positive thought about “me.” I was fully convinced that at that moment my daddy didn’t like me anymore. He was embarrassed to even have me as a son. I was such a disappointment that he wanted to hit me. I don’t believe that now, but at the time no one could persuade me different. 

Who can tell what goes through a parent’s mind when he’s mad enough to hit one of his kids with a belt. I think it would be really hard for someone to do that out of a sense of teaching a kid something. I think it would have to be more out of anger than anything else. Had he taken time to think about it, maybe he wouldn’t have done it. But, it’s hard to think when you’re really mad.

This I do know: if Dad had been as out of control as I thought he was, I would still bear the marks of that spanking. The man could’ve easily broken me in two had he not maintained a bunch of control.

The crazy thing is, Dad never had to lay a belt on me. I believe I mentioned it before that all he had to discipline me, or any of his other kids, was to say that we had disappointed him. Didn’t have to show it with a spanking. Added nothing to my shame. Added greatly to my fear, though. 

    If Dad ever went to bed angry at me, he never showed it. At some point he always came close to apologizing. After my spanking, I went to my room, shut the door and sobbed. In the closet of awhile, but eventually on the bed. At some point I stopped sobbing, but couldn’t lose the little quick gasps that come from a big cry.

    Right before bedtime, Daddy opened the door and came over to the bed. “Are you okay?” he said. I looked up and tried my best to smile. I don’t think I managed it, but I did manage a calm, “Yes, sir.” Dad didn’t manage a smile either, but he did tell me that he didn’t enjoy spanking me, and he didn’t want to have to do it again. Before leaving the room he said, “Uh, it’s important that you don’t ever lie.”

    I lied and assured him I wouldn’t. I didn’t realize I was lying at the time, but I should’ve guessed it. The important thing was that I knew I would never lie to Mom when Dad was at home. I was certain of that.

    Having Dad just take a minute to talk to me, made me feel so much better. I could see that he didn’t really hate me, and, though he didn’t apologize, he was sorry he handled things the way he did. I believed that more out of wanting to believe it.

    I thought a bunch about that experience over the years. And, I’ve come to see the whole thing in a different light. I imagine you may have also. I have since realized that it was the whole wrestling-with-girls thing that upset Dad the most. Dennis was a teenager and I was only three years younger. The entire spectacle had the appearance of unacceptability. While I wasn’t placing any sexual significance to the melee, I do realize I enjoyed tumbling around with Diane. I didn’t wrestle with her all that much, ‘cause she was not that good a wrestler and I didn’t want to hurt her. But, I did enjoy being around her.

    I think Dad, knowing what he knew about once being a youngman, in a sense was just stewing over the thought that Dennis and I might have had illicit thoughts during the free-for-all. I can’t speak for Dennis, because I was too busy holding my own. That Debbie was a big scratcher. And, Denise was a real pincher. Did I mention that?

    Anyway, I believe that, before he spanked me, Dad really wanted to say, “Mark, you’re too old to be wrestling around with girls. And, not only were you wrestling with girls, but you lied about wrestling with girls! That’s the worse lie of all!”

    I’m convinced that if you shuck down the corn, that’s what you’re gonna find. Dad would’ve likely spanked me for just the lie, but it wouldn’t have gotten out of hand had the sex angle not been in the equation.

Sex. I was pretty sure it was the worst thing in the world. You get a whipping for the mere hint of it, and when you die the thought alone was enough to burn you forever. Do you now how long forever is? I don’t either. It’s so weird, the whole sex and eternity thing. I don’t get it. Never have. I’m pretty sure Dad never fully came to grips with the spiritual ramifications of the human urge. Hey, who has?

    Me? I quit trying to make sense of it. I just wish like all get out that Dad would’ve, at some point in my young life, taken me aside and said something like, “Son, you’re probably having some weird thoughts, and some odd sensations happening to you in the nethers. I don’t understand ‘em any more than you do. Wish I did. I just want you to know that you’re not the only one on the planet or even in this house who is experiencing it. Truth is, God is a wonderment. If He wasn’t, He wouldn’t be God.”

    Something like that would’ve made me feel almost normal. Of course, Dad would’ve had to have pointed to my “nethers” when he mentioned it, or I would’ve never picked up on what he was saying. It’s all moot now. Besides I don’t think Dad ever used the word “nethers” in his life. Why would he?

    And, that kind of down-to-earth, self assuring conversation with parents never took place in my neighborhood. Maybe in my world. Certainly not during my life with Dad.

Chapter 17

Dad: The Great Storyteller

    Dad was the best storyteller I ever knew. I don’t know if it was the fact that he was great at spinning a yarn or the fact that there weren’t that many adults telling stories to kids. Not in our neighborhood, anyway.

The only other storyteller I knew was Dad’s nephew Dale Strickland. Dale is my cousin, but since this book is about Dad, I thought I’d describe him from my Dad’s perspective. Just bright as I can be.

Dale told a lot of good stories, don’t get me wrong. But, Dale was actually IN most of his stories, and the vast majority of ‘em were lies. As far as I know, they were all lies. You just never knew when to believe Dale Strickland.

I was about 30 before I found out that he did not train the Arabian horses for the Ben Hur chariot race. That he, in fact, did not hit one over the head with a Coke bottle just to get its attention. Nor was Dale best buds with cowboy actor Ben Johnson. He never lived on a ranch with him and helped train his horses.

What Dale did do -- and I have this on good authority – was lie like a bad dog. Could do it with a straight face, too. All the adults went along with him, so that really added credence to his lies. To this day, I don’t know why grownups feel it funny to trick kids into believing stuff. Sure, I told my nephew Clint that a water-holding cavity in the trunk of an oak tree in my backyard was in fact a place where leprechauns peed, but that was different. I never told him that I trained a leprechaun’s horse. That’s what Dale would’ve done.  

Other than Dale and Dad that was it. Teachers weren’t even telling stories when I was a kid. They just made us read redundant books about dogs and cats. “See Tip run. Run, Tip. Run.” How lame is that? Occasionally Tip would do something wrong and the author would write “No” about a million times. “No, Tip! No. No, no Tip!” Give me a break. And parents wondered why we didn’t like to talk about what we did at school that day.

No, there were no stories at school worth repeating. Home was where you heard the good stuff. The non-lying-for-the-purpose-of-tricking-kids stuff. I imagine that all Dads told their kids stories. Unfortunately, they only told stories to their own kids… who told their friends, who told their friends… When a kid tells a story that he heard from his dad, it gets all turned around. By the time I told Mom and Dad what Dinky’s dad had said, the story was unrecognizable to the originator. Nowadays, kids repeat stories so much better. I might’ve read that somewhere.

I was the best listener in our family. Probably the best listener on the whole block. And I think you can forget about the “probably.” I just loved to hear stuff, and I particularly loved story-night. What made it extra special was the fact that we never knew when it would be. We’d be watching TV. Dad would be in his chair and Mom, Larry and Susan would be on the couch. The rest of us were laid out on the oak floor, our heads TV-ward. Something sappy like Laurence Welk or Arthur Godfrey would be on. Fortunately there were no loaded guns in the house.

Out of the blue, Dad would say, “Hey, y’all wanna hear a story?” Is Tip hard of hearing? Of course, we want hear a story! Story-night always meant that Dad was in a good mood. He never shared stories in a bad mood. If he had, I’m pretty sure they would’ve been stories that, for the most part, ended with “… or else you’ll be walking at a tilt for the rest of your unnatural life.”

Story-night always generated popcorn. I don’t know how that worked. It was magical. Mom would put some Crisco in the big scorched pot and shake it till her bra strap snapped. (I just made that part up. I knew nothing about bras in The Day.) Jolly Pop was the only kind of popcorn I knew about… other than movie popcorn, which was popped in Heaven. Jolly Pop was popped on our old gas stove. A third of the kernels never popped. And, it wasn’t because Mom didn’t shake the pot hard enough. Did I mention what happened when she shook it? I’m pretty sure the popcorn didn’t pop good because this was before glow-in-the-dark hybrid popcorn. It was accidentally discovered in Russia. Another story that Dale would’ve likely told.  

During story-night we’d all gather around Dad’s chair. I don’t remember much about Mom, Susan and Larry gathering. Lynda, my oldest sister, didn’t gather, ‘cause she married and moved out when I still played outside in my underwear. I don’t know if mmy other older siblings had heard all the stories before, or just thought they were too old to gather around Dad’s chair. The rest of us loved to gather ‘cause that’s where the popcorn was. Right in the middle of us. We became one with the bowl. To this day I can’t eat popcorn slowly. I sit in the theatre and put fistfuls in my mouth. A grown man competing with himself for all the popcorn. I’m not proud of that, but I can’t seem to stop it.

Sometimes Mom would roast unshelled peanuts for story-night. They were the best. She’d put newspapers on the floor and a pan of nuts in the middle. It was mayhem. I can’t imagine anyone letting kids shell peanuts in a living room. It just goes against everything that’s good. By bedtime the living room floor at the Hayter house was like the floor of a barn… a peanut barn.   

Eventually Dad would get around to telling us stories. You were probably wondering when that was going to happen. Dad’s stories covered a wide spectrum. A wide something. Often he would tell about some of the books he read. Just about every book Dad read was a Western. Mostly, Zane Grey Westerns. I didn’t mind that at all. Western life was the life for me. My first step was on a stickhorse.

A lot of times during the stories, Dad would get stuff mixed up. We’d hafta get  him to clarify. – “Daddy, I thought Rip died during the stampede. He couldn’t have been in the shootout.” – “No, Dennis! Would you listen? Frank’s brother died in the stampede. Rip hasn’t died yet. Well he did in shootout, but--” – “Was Rip the one with the black horse?” – “Sure! Whatever. Do y’all want me to finish this or not?”

    Dad also got a lot of story ideas from some of the movies he saw. Some of them were Westerns, too, but some were about gangsters and pirates and war. Exciting stuff.

Occasionally, Dad’s stories would drift over into his personal life. In fact, some of this account of my father is tied to our storytelling nights. His early life farming with Grandpa; his tales of Grandma’s escapades; his experience as a roughneck;his job at the refinery; stuff that happened on the job at Crown Refinery… Stuff like that.  

The scaredest Dad ever got was when he was an oilrig one night in Oklahoma. He was just checking on something, so he was the only one there. And, it was dark. If it hadn’t been dark, it would’ve been a stupid story. Dad said he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, even through his good eye. Dad was all but blind in his right eye. No idea why… or how. Can’t believe none of us asked.

Anyway, Dad was walkin’ up the ridge to the tool shed. No flashlight. Nothing. Didn’t even have his truck lights on. Something about batteries being real bad back then. So, he’s stumbling around in the direction of the tool shed, and practically runs into it. He opened the door and fumbled around for a match in his pocket when all of a sudden – at this part, Dad got quiet for about three seconds and looked at all of us real scary like. See what I mean about him being a good storyteller? – Where was I? Oh, yeah, he’s fumbling for a match when all of a sudden somebody puts a hand on his shoulder.  Dad said that if he’d had a bad heart he would’ve died on the spot.

Turns out it was just some poor hobo who picked the oilrig site to spend the night. Dad said that the guy couldn’t talk and that was why he didn’t announce his coming. I believed that at the time, but now I’m not so sure. A deaf and dumb guy sleeping on an oilrig? Just too convenient.

And, to top it off, I didn’t really like the ending of the story. Anti-climatic if you ask me. I didn’t mention that to Dad, ‘cause I didn’t know what anit-climatic was, nor did I want to hurt his feelings. I was just expecting for Dad to say that big snake or bear or an escapee from the insane asylum was in the shed. Back then there were a lot of scary people escaping from insane asylums. Don’t know why that was. Cousin Dale knew of hundreds of them. And, everyone who lived in an insane asylum was evil mean. And, strong. Must’ve been something in the water, ‘cause crazy people are not that bad today. Hey, I used to be one. What?

I don’t remember any other scary stories that Dad told. Other than noodling. Noodling scared me. Dad used to do it, too. He’d go down on the creek bank, probably the Big Deep Fork Creek near Bristow. There was a Little Deep Fork Creek, too. Tell the truth, I never tell the difference. Both of ‘em looked medium size to me. 

Big Deep Fork Creek

Anyway, Dad and Uncle AB or one or two of the other less sensible kin uncles would go into the water. Sometimes take off all their clothes before getting in. When you find out what they’re gonna be doing in the water that just makes the event that much scarier.

They’d take turns stooping down next to the bank and reaching underneath some of the washed out parts of the bank and try to grab a big ol’ catfish. Put their hand right in the thing’s mouth. That’s like a million times more scary than somebody touching on the shoulder when your at a dark oilrig.

If you knew how muddy and yucky the water at the Big and Little Deep Forks is, you’d just get sick.

Dad said they had water moccasins swim by ‘em, but they never accidentally grabbed one. He did catch some big fish, though. At least that’s what he told us. And, that’s what I told the kids at school. I don’t know how many times Dad went noodling, but I made it sound like it was every other day. He might’ve done once or twice for all I know, but the kids at school were told that Dad was the best noodler in Oklahoma. I imagine they believed me. I was a pretty convincing storyteller myself. Not as good as Dale, though. The lies that came out of his mouth were painted with multiple shades of believability.

If Dad ever told any big lies during his stories, I don’t think it was intentional. He might’ve exaggerated a little, maybe remembered stuff a little different, but he wouldn’t have out and out lied. Evidence enough is in how he ended the oilrig-nighttime-stranger story. If he was gonna tell a whopper, that would’ve been the best time for it. Wasn’t a monster or bear or insane person. It was just a deaf guy. Hey, Dale would’ve had a couple of Martians popping out of the shed. And, he would’ve been most convincing.

Chapter 16

"Just shoot me, Dad"

     Science has pretty well wrapped up the notion that we each have our own personal set of fingerprints. It hasn’t been proved mathematically, but it’s pretty much a given that the print on your left hand’s pointer finger is not identical to the middle-finger on the right hand of some lady from Saskatchewan.

    So, until I’m arrested for something someone with my identical prints did, I don’t really care enough to question science. Same thing with DNA. I don’t need to know what it is, but I’m somewhat sure that mine is exclusive to me. Hate to think there were two of me.

    I say that to say this: no two people share the same personalities. I pluralized “personality” because I’m fairly sure that we each have more than one, and that one of mine could conceivably match one of yours. But no way can they all match.

Truth is most people’s personality changes – if only minutely – depending on who we’re with at a given time. I’m more like “me” with my wife than with anyone else. I’m actually kinder than “me” when I’m around strangers.  It makes no sense, but that’s the way I am.

I am more patient with mean people than I am with anyone else. That’s ‘cause I would rather take a kick in the but rather than get into a confrontation with someone. I’ve got three brothers, and, when I’m alone with any one of ‘em, my personality is different than when I’m with one of the others. I’ll bet you are, too. Unless you don’t know my brothers.

     Need I continue with this? Good. I think I’ve pretty well set the ground work for the main theme of this chapter… that being my Dad had very few personalities. I saw him as always on the edge between angry and almost happy. He generally seemed to lean toward angry. And, let me tell you, the entire family did everything in its power to change his lean. Unfortunately, there was just too much working against us.

    Dad was responsible for the health and wellbeing of seven kids and a wife. He was trapped in a job he hated. The “trapped” part was linked to him being responsible for a large family. I believe I alluded to that. Dad could not shed his job at the refinery anymore than he could get rid of chewing tobacco. It was addiction that made him keep his Mail Pouch brand chewing tobacco, and responsibility that made him continue to return to his job at Crown Refinery.

    Back in The Day, the father was literally the bread-winner. Dad pretty much kept all the financial worries to himself. As much as possible. When times got really tough, though, it was apparent to all that we were in deep doo. Dad was at his lowest during those times. Most understandable. Hard to take, but most understandable.

    Regardless the financial situation, Dad was hard to read. He might be acting somewhat pleasant and all of a sudden something said or seen would set him off. It was just hard for us to figure. That’s why we would generally use Mom as a go between. “Mother, would you ask Dad when we’re going to get our allowance? I think he forgot.” Or “Mother, would you see if Dad would let us make a fort out of his sawhorses?” That kind of stuff.

    Mom knew Dad the best. There would’ve been just a whole lot more verbal spats had she not. Mom was also a person who would walk around the block to avoid a confrontation. It’s so hard to argue with a person who refuses to participate in an argument.

    So, where am I going with all this? First I’m going to a small fenced off lot at the corner of Harris and Shaver. Used to be a grocery store but was a dozed-over parking lot where people occasionally went to sell stuff out of their trucks. Watermelons, puppies, stolen hubcaps… During the summer of my twelfth year, some guy had actually leased the lot to sell pony rides for kids. He had about four or five Shetland ponies tied to… uh, I don’t know. A makeshift pony corral thing.

    Big deal, you say? Well it was one particular summer-Sunday when we were driving home from church. I was decked out in my new suit. First one I ever had. I didn’t get another till I married. The Hayters weren’t big into suits. Don’t remember the occasion that made Mom and Dad buy me my brown and black checked, dork-looking outfit, but it had to be something. They wouldn’t have just up and got me a suit for no reason.  And, were it not germane to the story, I wouldn’t have even mentioned it, so can I get on with story now? Thanks.

    We’re still coming home from church and just before making a right on Harris, Dad, instead, made a right into the Shetland pony lot. I thought that odd. I looked over at Dennis and he gave me his isn’t-that-odd look. Jill and Alan were grinning big guns, but I’m sitting there completely befuddled because Dad was doing something way out of character. Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes, roast beef waiting at home, Shetland ponies…? The old man was tripping out on us.

    I couldn’t make eye contact with Mom to register my look of befuddledness which is said, because I’ve got a decent befuddled look. Had I given the look and Dad seen it instead of Mom, well, he would’ve killed me. – “Mark, hop out of the car and wait for me behind the truck over there. After Jill and Alan have their horse ride, I’m gonna kill you.”

    The fact that I’m writing this thing is testimony to the fact that I kept my bewilderment look to myself. It was hard to stifle, too. Especially when Dad said some of the most bizarre words to ever come out of his mouth. At least while in my presence. He said, “Okay, you kids have been after me to let you ride the horses, so go ride ‘em!”

    For the life of me I could not recall ever hinting to Dad that he should take us horseback riding. Forget about taking us to a cleared lot so we can sit atop Shetland ponies as they trod in a circle. And, on a Sunday!

Not to worry though. He wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to Jill and li’l Al, both of whom bounded out of the car and ran behind Dad who had gotten out to pay the man.

    Dennis and I staid put in the backseat. I asked Mom if she had any idea what this was all about. She didn’t. Didn’t care to comment, either. After getting Jill and Alan mounted, Dad walked back to the car, stuck his head in the window and said, “Okay, Mark, you’re next.”

    Me next?  No, I don’t need a next. I’m not riding a hairy short pony. I’m 12 blanking years old! I’m wearing a suit for heaven’s sake! There is no way on God’s green earth I’m getting on that little horse and riding in a tight circle! If you want to take me out behind that truck over there and kill me, you have my blessing, ‘cause your number three son is not getting out of this car.

    Those were the words that screamed to be released from my mouth. It didn’t happen. What did come out was, “No, that’s okay, Daddy. I really don’t want to ride.” That may sound like a perfectly harmless thing to say to a dad, or to anybody, for that matter. But, to my dad it registered as back talk.

    “You’ve been whining forever about wanting to ride a horse, now, you get out there and ride!” Again with the wanting to ride a horse? Who the Sam Hill was he talking about? Was there a parallel universe he stepped out of while we were at church? Did he have another family somewhere and just got us mixed up? I just can’t make this too clear – At no time had I ever asked Dad to let me ride a horse. Maybe Jill and Alan did while I was asleep. I don’t know. But, I heard nothing of it.

    In my daydreams I’m always a brave guy. You can point a gun at me, and I won’t flinch. I would never tell the enemy where our troops were. Brave is what I be… in my mind. But when actually looking down the barrel of a gun, or in this case, peering into Dad’s stare, I crumbled. “Yes, sir” is what I told him.

    So, in my new suit and polished old leather shoes, I walked over to Li’l Pokie and let the horse-guy boost me up. How could it possibly get any worse? Easy. After I was positioned in the saddle, the guy’s daughter, a cute girl about my age, grabbed the horse by its bridle and led the animal around in a circle. I was not even allowed to steer the horse. No way was there room for that pony to do anything but walk in a tight circle, yet I was not trusted to steer the thing.

    There I was in a suit, sittin’ on a saddle, on a tiny horse, being led in a circle by a cute girl my age. And, wouldn’t you know it, everyone from San Jacinto Junior High passed by during the lifetime I sat atop that horse. “Oh, my goodness, whatta doofus! Wait a minute! Isn’t that Mark Hayter? Everybody look! It’s Hop-along Dork!”

    After my 1203rd circle of the area, the girl helped me down and led Li’l Pokie back to the makeshift stall. I dragged my buns back to the car, climbed into the backseat and looked over at Dennis. He gave me one of his famous “Whoa!” looks and then turned away. I thought sure he might say something like, “Nice ride, Roy.” But, he didn’t. We were brothers. He could see that I was completely beat down. There is absolutely no humor or gotcha moment in a brother being thoroughly humiliated.

    Crazy thing is, Dad thought Dennis too old to ride the pony. Dennis was 15. I don’t know what Dad considered the cut-off age between too old and old enough to ride a pony, but 12 wasn’t it. If it had been back in 1961 I would’ve been able to approach so many more things with an acceptable level of self-confidence. Yeah, 50 years ago and I still bear the mark.

    It was one of those massive mood changes that Dad often experienced… we all experienced. At one second he’s a proud father for letting his kids ride the ponies… at a time when he knew he couldn’t afford it. And, then all of a sudden the experience is turned into a punishment. I believe that had Xanax been invented back then and made affordable, it would’ve never happened. Dad obviously had some issues that made it very difficult for him to maintain a good mood for long. He hated that about him as much as we did. Probably more. Likely more.

       

Part 2 of Chapter 15

Part Two of a Two Part Christmas with Dad

I think it took Dad most of the year to pay for Christmas. To keep from disappointing us too much, he went all out. Even though everything we got was put on layaway, he ended up having to borrow money to get stuff out of layaway. For the life of me, I can’t remember the name of the finance company that kept Dad on the financial leash. It was a local outfit with a coastal name. I can’t remember.

I do remember that Dad paid that outfit monthly for most of his life. Sometimes weekly. Sometimes he had to borrow money from ‘em to pay ‘em. Nowadays they call it refinancing. Back then it was legalized loan sharking. And, Dad was the mark.

I don’t know if it’s fortunate or not, but Dad kept most financial details from us. I’m not even sure he told Mom about what he was doing. It would’ve been impossible to enjoy Christmas if we knew what all he was going through to make it happen.

But, I have no intention of dwelling on the morbid side of the holiday. I’ll keep that stuff planted somewhere deep in my cranial nether regions. Good place for ‘em. After all, we had some great gift-openings at the Hayter house… depending on which house we were in at the time. Christmas at two particular houses were my favorites.

A Christmas morning with Larry, Lynda and Susan (back row) Dennis, Mark and Jill. Then Li'l Al.

The house on Pinewood Street was where we had our best Christmas. I believe I hinted at that in one of the earlier chapters. It was the year Dennis and I asked for a bicycle… apiece. We didn’t want to share. There is no good way for two brothers to share one bike. Many have tried and all have failed miserably. Dartmouth University did a survey once. I believe I read it in “Science Digest.”

Of course Dennis and I had some doubts about the bicycle. There was no foregone conclusion that Dad was going to get us the two-wheelers. So, we had to ask for other stuff, too. It was 1957, the year the “Stallion 38” came out. You’re bound to be familiar with the Stallion. If you recall, it was a revolutionary toy six shooters. It was the first gun with real-looking bullets. Instead of inserting a roll of caps into the pullout breach of the weapon, you actually put a cap inside the shell of each of the six bullets. Then you inserted the bullets into the cylinder. Just like non-TV cowboys did. TV cowboys never had to load their pistols. They must’ve had miniature machine gun clips on each gun. But, I digress… again.

The Stallion 38, though the greatest known toy gun in the world, was still no match for a bicycle. The 38 was expensive for a toy gun, but not as expensive as a bike. Dennis and I figured if we unwrapped the 38s Christmas morning, we’d know that we didn’t get the bikes. No way could Dad afford both.

The toughest part about Christmas for us was the waiting. Nowadays, you have to wake kids up to tell ‘em it’s Christmas. Some even whine that they have to get out of bed. I’m not making this up. Back in “The Day” it was a whole different ball game. A different something.

We’d always go to bed early on Christmas Eve. (Not Mom and Dad. Just the kids. Work with me here.) Logic being that we’d fall asleep earlier and Christmas would come sooner. Horrible reasoning. Stupid, too. You see, on Christmas Eve night we could not go to sleep. We were way too anxious. You’d think we were in a Turkish prison waiting to be released the following morning. – Skip that. Bad Christmas analogy.

I don’t know how many times we’d yell from our beds down to Mom and Dad, “Is it Christmas, yet?” Probably only did it about three times, but seemed like a lot. Dad wouldn’t tolerate more than three yells of the same question.

When we headed to bed there were a moderate number of gifts under the tree. They were the ones that had already come out of layaway. And, they were the ones that no one could figure out. Weighing, shaking and measuring were no help in determining what they were. Mom was about the best gift wrapper on the planet. She didn’t worry so much about the beauty of the wrap as she did the camouflage effect. She could wrap a live, quacking duck and you’d think it was a croquet set. (A much better analogy. Just came to me.)

When we were finally allowed to race to the living room on that Christmas morning in ‘57, we found wall to wall gifts. Keep in mind seven kids, big boxes and the finance company. We were not allowed to tear through the stash. No, we sat around the tree and waited for Dad to hand out the gifts… way too slowly to hand out the gifts. Dennis and I got socks and jeans and shirts and underwear. We each got a big bag of plastic soldiers, and some other small toys. Finally we opened our Stallion 38s. It was joy tied tightly to morbidity. I may have made that word up.

Stallion 38s, the best handgun ever made… not counting the Fanner Fifty. The holster to the Fanner Fifty was as authentic as you can get. Paladin would’ve loved a Fanner Fifty holster, only they didn’t come in black. The Stallion 38 was a smaller revolver, with a less rugged black holster. Paladin would’ve laughed at it.

Point is, receipt of the Stallion 38s meant we weren’t getting bicycles. Maybe next year. Yeah, right. Though we showed no disappointment to Dad, we did give Mom some pathetic whines. No one had ever whined to Dad. I’m not sure one could survive a whine to Dad. Surely I’ve alluded to that.

Dennis and I tried to buck up. Not sure what that means, but I’ve heard it enough in reference to not crying. I kept thinking, hey, we got Stallion 38s! That’s nothing to sneeze at. And underwear? Did I mention the underwear?

After the smoke cleared, Dad tried to apply the last straw to our buckingupedness, by telling Dennis and me to gather up all the wrappings and take them to the garage. Our “Yes, sirs” were but a mask of respect.

We shoved all the wrapping paper into one of the bigger boxes. I think it was Jill’s play kitchen. And, together we pushed and shoved the box into the garage. It wasn’t heavy, just bulky. As we shoved the box, I couldn’t help but notice that Dad and Larry were following a little behind us. Made no sense. I was so gullible. When we opened the garage door, there they were. -- Two ponies! A white one and a black one. -- No, that’s not right. Two J.C. Higgins bicycles. One 24-incher and one 26-incher. It would be years later before I realized the measurements had to do with the wheel size. Figured it out on my own, too. It’s amazing how much of a difference two inches adds to the height of a bicycle seat. I could barely touch the pedals on Dennis’ bike.

The bikes were black with red trim. They had fenders, side-tanks, a chain guard and even baskets for the handlebars. PeeWee Herman thought he had a bicycle. Ours were so much more rugged-looking.

Now, it was time for the cry. Dennis didn’t cry, but I was really emoting the ol’ eye water. A few seconds after the awe began to wane, we both ran over and hugged Dad. Getting a bicycle is occasion enough for a Dad hug.

Dad told us that Larry and he were up most of the night putting the bikes together. No small task. I don’t know that I ever thanked Larry. Surely I did. Best gift I ever got. Dennis and I rode the wheels off our bikes. Not literally. I was in the second grade when I got “The Lone Wolf” and I was still riding it when I was in high school. Beg pardon? Oh, Lone Wolf. I needed a name for my bike and found a little decal “The Lone Wolf” in an old model car kit. Some kind of roadster. I slapped that sticker on, and that 24-inch Higgins was The Lone Wolf from then on. I’m just glad I didn’t run across a Catwoman decal. Good decals were hard to find back then.

Best Christmas ever. Dad even got Mom a record player. Our first. He even let Mom sign up for the Columbia Record Club. The records had been delivered before Christmas. Wanna know the truth? I think Mom had a hand in getting the player. I can’t see Dad joining a record club. If you joined the club you got the first six record albums for six cents. The ones after that cost about 200 percent over retail. It took two years and two house moves to get us out of that record club deal.

The best record album was Jonathan Winters. Dennis and I memorized each routine. We’ll still use a line or two in conversation. It’s a code between us. Mom also got Bob Newhart. Another hoot. Then there was Dwayne Eddie, Perry Como, Andy Williams and Patty Page. The four of them were not all that funny, but they were sure easy listening. Except for Dwayne Eddie. The man could grove. Speaking of which, we practically played the groves off those LPs. Not on Christmas Day, though.

I can’t imagine Mom ordering more than half dozen more albums before Dad killed the deal. Or tried to kill the deal. That Columbia outfit held on like grim death. But, they didn’t know who they were up against. When Dad set his mind to something… look out.

Obviously we had Christmas in other places. The one on Belmont was the site of the second best Christmas. That’s when Dennis and I got our BB guns. You give a kid a bicycle one year and a BB gun a couple of years, and you’ve launched a kid into pre-adulthood.

One thing the least weird about the Christmas on Belmont Street was that Dad got me two football helmets. One was hard plastic and the other faux leather with a cotton interior. The fauxness of this particular leather was cardboard. A red, dimpled cardboard.

When Dad noticed the “two-helmet mistake”, he told me to pick one of the helmets and give the other to Dennis. I really wanted the white, hard-plastic one. It looked more like the helmets of the day. So, I handed Dennis the red, fake leather-thing. I don’t see God could even fault me for that. Dennis said, “Great! Man! Thanks, Mark, for giving me the best one! This is just like what Red Grange wore!” He put that helmet on and acted like it was the greatest thing since Hostess Snowballs.

I was an idiot. How could I give Dennis the best helmet? Red Grange? Dennis went on to explain that Red Grange was the Galloping Ghost. Is that not a cool name? He was the greatest player ever.

I had no idea. I immediately told Dennis that I had made a mistake. I meant to keep the red helmet. He reluctantly let me make the switch. Two nights later, I left my helmet out all night… a dewy night. By morning it had disintegrated. That’s when Dennis did the “ninny-ninny noo noo” thing. What a con kid.

Christmas morning on the couch on Belmont. That's me in my cardboard Red Grange-like helmet. Whatta dope.

He did the same thing to me after the Christmas of ’59. Only it wasn’t helmets this time. It was Fanner-Fifty holsters. The holsters were a light cowhide. Real leather, this time! Beautiful. Perfect, in fact. However, Dennis had this wild idea to make him the fastest draw ever. He soaked the holster in Havoline HD 30. That’s the oil Dad used in the Biscayne. Dennis completely drenched his holster in the stuff. It turned into a soggy mess.

This put him in a bad way. No way was Dad going to replace an overly oiled holster. Or any holster for that matter. After about a five-second think, Dennis came up with an idea. He stood outside the kitchen window drawing his Fanner-Fifty. You’d think he was Wyatt Earp. I walked through the kitchen and saw him standing in the backyard doing his fast draw. So, I went to the bedroom and got my weapon and headed out to meet him.

I took one look at his holster and asked him what happened to it. He said that with a little oil he had managed to decrease the speed of his draw-time by 50 percent. Said something like that. So, we faced one another and sure enough… he beat me. Beat me again. Not that he didn’t always beat me, but this time he seemed even faster than usual. He was so fast that I asked him to put oil on my holster. He thought for a second and said, “No, Dad’s out of oil. But, I’ll tell you what. I’ll go ahead and change holsters with you. Let you be the fastest… at least until Dad gets more oil.” How can you not love a brother like that?

I strapped on Dennis’ soggy holster and sure enough I outdrew him every time. Of course, my Fanner Fifty was getting slippery and the left leg of my jeans was soaked in oil. But, boy, was I fast. Whatta deal.

The next day when I was in the garage, I noticed a half-full can of oil. I ran and told Dennis about it. Told him he’d better take advantage and oil up his holster while the oil was still there. He gave me his ol’ grin. It was the look of one-upmanship. I believe Webster even used Dennis’ name in his one-upmanship definition.

After that, Dennis went back to beating me to the draw. His holster never saw any Havoline 30 wt. And, his jeans never got oily. In defense of Dennis, I suppose if I had a little brother that stupid, I’d likely take advantage of him, too. Maybe. Anyway, I’d like to say that was the last time Dennis ever tricked me out of something good. I’d like to say that. And would… were it true.

Yes, I realize the Saga of Dennis and Mark only marginally relates to Dad. It was just something that was riding heavy on my mind. So, let me end this chapter by mentioning something directly related to Dad. Faris Hayter was the hardest guy in the world to shop for. Don’t get me wrong. The guy could’ve used a lot of stuff, but nothing we could afford. New tires, pickup truck liner, new brakes, table saw… We just couldn’t do it. Dennis and I would either get him a couple of packs of Mail Pouch Tobacco or a few cheap cigars. King Edward comes to mind. Or, was Edward a Prince? I can’t remember. We got him some socks once and some handkerchiefs another time or two. He also received a screwdriver and a cloth nail apron from us. And, he always seemed genuinely pleased to get whatever we got him. I guess that’s the way of Dads. Mom’s, too.

I don’t know what you’ve picked up on in this Christmas chapter, but there’s something that’s captured my mind in the telling. Christmas was so special to us because we seldom got gifts throughout the year. We got one gift on our birthday, but it was usually nothing grand. But, Christmas. That was one wild time. Most of the kids back then (all of the ones I knew) were always excited as all get out at the coming of Christmas. The thought of someone having to wake us up so we could unwrap our gifts? Well, that’s is laughable.

Dad always did his best to give us a memorable Christmas. It pleased him to make us happy. I think God is the same way… wanna know the truth.

Of course, the rule for measuring greatness of a Christmas, from the standpoint of a kid, has to do with the quality and quantity of gifts received. Dad obviously sacrificed a lot in an attempt to make us happy. The man wouldn’t have gone into hock every Christmas if he didn’t hate the thought of disappointing his kids. I don’t believe any of us fully appreciated what he went through to make Christmas happen for us. I know I didn’t. I guess that’s the way of kids. Some of us, anyway.